


Saturday Night's All Right For Fighting

by orphan_account



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Negan and Carl are Buddies, Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Bisexual Negan (Walking Dead), Crude Humor, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Romance, Smut, Strained Parent-Child Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-08-06 12:09:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16387460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Rick Grimes is a harried, over-worked father of two struggling to make ends meet. Forced to take the dreaded Saturday night shift at the King County Sheriff's Department, he has to sweep the streets of Atlanta's worst. On a routine drunk and disorderly call, he meets Negan, a vulgar loudmouth who is easy on the eyes.So why does his son like him so much?*Brief hiatus for school. Stay tuned!





	1. Don't Give Me None of Your Aggravation

It shouldn’t have been funny.

Rick Grimes was a hardened deputy sheriff of Atlanta, Georgia with enough years under his belt to be the butt of grandpa jokes. But there he was, chin tucked into his chest and stetson tipped forward as he tried to mask the laugh that was fighting to burst out of his chest.

“I don’t sell drugs. I _use_ drugs!”

He rubbed at his nose, sniffing before he finally had the strength to look up. “Well, that’s illegal too. We’re gonna take this,” — he held up the tiny Ziplock bag of meth — “and book this into evidence. You’re coming with us.”

The guy was a twerp, as most druggies were. His rail-thin body was made smaller in his baggy t-shirt and jeans, backwards cap sitting crooked on his matted hair. Cuts and scabs littered his milky skin. Rick watched as he shifted from foot to foot, hands twitching inside his handcuffs.

“Man, it’s not mine.” His voice was a nasally whine.

“It was in your hand.”

The guy nodded. “True. True.”

A set of footsteps caught Rick’s attention and he looked up.

“Tweedle dumb days it wasn’t his, either.” If Shane’s face was any indication, he was just as convinced as Rick. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, motioning to the beer-bellied man in the wife beater bent over the police cruiser. “Says this could ruin his promising career as a dishwasher if this gets on his record.”

Rick gripped the collar of the perpetrator. The thin damp cotton bunched in his hand as he began to march him over to the cruiser. “He shoulda’ thought of that before dealin’ drugs at a CITGO.” He tossed the guy in the back before slipping into the passenger's seat.

“I’m getting a slurpie. You want anything?” Shane pointed a finger as he walked backwards towards the gas station.

Hand on the roof, Rick stuck his head out of the window. “If they don’t have cherry, coke.” He gave the car a good pat before sliding back inside.

“Man, I want a slurpie,” the tweaker drawled from the back.

Rick peaked over his shoulder. “And I wanna see my kids, but I’m stuck with you for tonight.”

Rick loved his job, swear to God. The pulse of Atlanta made his blood run hot as he patrolled the streets with his best friend, a goddamn tribute to any good buddy cop film. Nothing matched the feeling of saving someone’s life, of making another person’s day a little bit better. Yeah, Rick liked his job, but he  _hated_ Saturdays. It was the end of the work week when men loosened their ties and women kicked off their high heels. It was the day the crank heads and derelicts came crawling out from the shadows. Rick’s Saturdays were filled with breaking up drunken brawls, hunting down teenage vandals, and everything in between.

Tonight was no different.

~*~

Shane smacked the dashboard with his hands, bobbing his head to the rhythm. From his throat came the guttural grunts of _Smoke on the Water._

“Knock it off.” Rick eased the police cruiser through the city’s traffic, the taillights casting his face in a haze of red.

Shane threw his hands up. “Excuse me, officer asshole. I’m just excited about going douchebag hunting.”

“You’re a douchebag.” The cruiser rocked as if it were filled with two pawing teenagers while the men tried to smack each other. As the car in front began to pull away, Rick was forced to act the adult and step on the gas. Snatching the cup of lukewarm slurpie resting between them, he nestled the straw into the corner of his mouth and took a sip. “I don’t know why you like doing this crap.”

It was Saturday night and they weren’t an hour into their shift before the first misdemeanor assault was radioed in; i.e. some drunken asshole had gotten into a bar fight. Rick hated dealing with the belligerent. They were always the same — guys with big egos and even bigger mouths.

“It’s funnier when we throw them behind bars,” Shane explained as Rick pulled into the parking lot, tires whining in protest against the cracked asphalt. “The guy’s dick gets a lot smaller with that ‘clang.’”

Killing the car’s engine, Rick released a long breath before letting his head drop against the steering wheel. “We can just sit here. Let them die.” The only thing louder than the bar’s awful music was his friend’s bark of laughter. It only took a moment before his shoulders started to shake as well.

Cleaning up the weekend garbage hadn’t always been on the Deputy Sheriff’s repertoire, but neither had being a single father. His wife had passed away three years prior, leaving him with two kids and far too many boxes of DiGiorno frozen pizzas. Between a sixteen-year-old and a toddler, he needed the extra hours to scrape by. So if he had to scoop up every sloppy drunk in Atlanta to give his children a decent living, then so be it — didn’t mean he wasn’t going to complain about it the entire time.

As Rick’s boots touched the pavement, he slipped on his hat. He noted the flickering neon bar sign, half of the letters unlit.

The place was seedy and disheveled, the thrum of music and shouts pouring out of the windows like a heartbeat. With gritted teeth, Rick opened the door.

The deputies were greeted with a furious roar of a drunken crowd. The men were immediately fighting their way through swaying bodies and the stink of cigarettes, vomit, and bad decisions. Underneath the low hanging stained glass lamps was a wasteland of broken barstools and overturned chairs — the grisly evidence of the brutal beating that was going down. A pool queue skirted across the floor as it skimmed against the tip of Rick’s boot.

A blur of leather clouded Rick’s peripheral and he ducked. Wild-eyed, he turned and watched as a fist sailed over his head, connecting with a man’s face in a sickening crunch. The poor soul’s yowl mixed with the rancorous cheers of the patrons as he doubled over, cradling his broken nose. The wretch had little time to grieve because a pair of large hands gripped him by the collar and began to drag him across the room. Before his face could be smashed against the greasy countertop of the bar, Shane was on top of the perpetrator, slamming him against the table, and for once Rick was thankful for his friend’s tendency for rough handedness.

“Easy up, there, prick or I’ll enjoy it too much,” the offender drawled, making Shane give him another shove against the bar before putting him in handcuffs. The other patrons protested as their drinks toppled over, ice sliding onto the grimy floor.

“Shut the fuck up,” Shane snarled with another shove, but Rick pulled him back.

“I got it.”

The guy chuckled, his shoulders shaking. “Are your nipples always pebble hard when you arrest someone?”

Shane’s face was red. “This guy’s a _fuck_ and a half-”

There was a reason Rick and Shane worked well together; they were the perfect stereotype. Rick played the part of the even-tempered, soft-spoken southern boy who could talk his way out of a paper bag. Being a cop took strength, but the job required an amount of gentle charm that Shane did not have. And when Rick wasn’t quick enough to dodge a punch, his friend had his back. So with a firm grip to Shane’s bicep, Rick led his partner a few steps away to de-escalate the situation.

“Listen, the bartender was the one who called it in. I’ll take him back to the car while you get a statement,” he said with a shrug.

For a second, Rick thought Shane was going to argue. Finally, he sighed and nodded his head, but not before shooting the guy a nasty glare.

As Shane stalked off, Rick had the chance to scrutinize the jerk who christened his Saturday night and he was met with a toothy smile that made his breath catch in his throat. Rick was secure enough in his masculinity to admit that the guy was startlingly handsome. He radiated greaser chic, with a form-fitting leather jacket and tight jeans that sat on slim hips. His hazel eyes flashed with mischief even through the obvious drunken haze. The only thing he was missing was a goddamn comb to run through his slicked back hair.

“Dude needs to learn how to un-clench, Jesus.” The man bent at the knees as if his slew of obscenities didn’t carry enough emphasis.

Rick only offered a roll of the eyes and scoff, not beguiled in the slightest. “I’d suggest you shut up and walk.” His nails dug into the leather of the guy’s sleeve as he marched him through the bar. To Rick’s surprise, he came willingly. In fact, as the man stumbled out into the shitty night, he seemed utterly amused by the whole situation.

“Your partner’s a real peach, cowboy. How’d you get stuck with him?”

Rick’s lip twitched as he shoved him into the cruiser, making sure that he didn’t bump his head on the roof. “Just wait here.” He slammed the door shut before resting his hip against the car. As the music continued to burst from the windows, Rick shifted. Slowly, the pounding in his head began to fall into tune with the baseline. With a huff, he ripped open the passenger side door and slid inside.

A deep chuckle came from the back of the cruiser. “Officer the fuck down.”

Rick ripped his rear view mirror towards him. A set of hazel eyes hovered in the glass, their corners crinkled in amusement. “Don’t you people have families? A wife and kids to take care of rather than a black eye and a hangover?” He was tired and missed his kids. Maybe taking it out on some drunken loser was wrong, but the circles under Rick’s eyes were too dark to care.

He turned around, the stranger’s face was distorted by the cage that separated them. “Do you ever get tired of making an ass out of yourself?”

“Not particularly.” The man pumped his eyebrows. “Got a name, prick?”

There were two options when it came to dealing with difficult people on the job: the first was to ignore their goading, which was the preferable and responsible method. The second was to let the person get under your skin and engage. Usually, Rick was able to keep his cool, but tonight — a _Saturday night_ — with _this guy_ had Rick on edge.

“To you, it’s officer.”

The man let out a long whistle before sliding down in his seat. “You keep talking to me like that and I’ll have to tell you my safe word. Holy _shit._ ”

The bar’s door remained firmly shut with no Shane in sight. Releasing a breath through clenched teeth, Rick took the bait. “Rick. My name’s Rick.”

“Officer Rick.” The name rolled off his tongue as if he were trying to savor it. “Rick, Rick, Rick. Tell me, Rick,” — his voice lowered to a heady whisper — “you got a nice pussy to go home to? Because you are _real_ uptight.”

Before he could answer, the passenger door was flung open. “You wouldn’t believe the earful I just got.” Shane threw himself into his seat, the corners of his lips twitching. Sliding down, he pressed his temple against Rick’s. “Guy’s name is Negan, and this whole thing started because they were comparing dick sizes.” He swiped a hand over his mouth, trying to bite down a laugh.

Rick tipped the brim of his hat down, hoping to shield his face from their passenger. “Are you serious?” The guy had more grey in his beard than Rick and he was tossing bar stools over —?

“He kept insisting that his was bigger than mine.” Rick and Shane turned around, only to be met with a devilish grin. “Like a goddamn gentleman, I didn’t think it was appropriate to whip my Johnson out in a bar, so I told him to go ask his wife.” Negan shrugged, his already wide smile getting wider. “Prick threw the first punch.”

“Well, you’re gonna have an awful lot of guys to rub dicks with tonight, asshole.” Shane’s eyes rolled to the ceiling as Rick pulled out of the parking lot.

It was only 9 PM.

~*~

It took several seconds for Rick to finally get his front door unlocked. By the time he ambled up to his front porch steps, he was barely seeing straight. The key blade scraped against the cool metal doorknob as he missed once, twice, three times -- before he hit his target. When the door finally creaked open, he sighed. Lori had asked him for months to get it fixed and at the time, her pestering had been grating. Now every squeak and scrape was a knife to the gut. He briefly wondered how many other widowers’ wives haunted them through menial chores.

Rick had his jacket halfway off when something caught his eye. “ _Carl_.”

His teenage son stood frozen in the kitchen, refrigerator door open and cereal bowl in hand. He looked at his father through squinted eyes before kicking the door shut with a sigh. He was caught.

Rick’s hands found his hips. “It’s 2 AM.”

“It’s a Saturday.”

“You’re supposed to be watching Judith.”

Carl’s face flattened. “She’s asleep, dad. I put her to bed hours ago after I let her have a shot of whiskey. Why don’t you trust me? _You’re_ the one coming home at two in the morning.” He padded over to the kitchen counter, Homer Simpson pajama bottoms covering most of his bare feet.

The contempt in his son’s voice made the hairs on the back of Rick’s neck stand on end. It wasn’t the first time he had been the target of Carl’s anger; ever since Lori died a shadow had fallen over him. The already moody teenager had grown withdrawn and isolated. When he got home from school he immediately retreated to his room like a cave troll, only making appearances to feed and to play with his little sister. Rick was aware that he resented him for his absence. He had already lost one parent, now he had to sit in an empty house with his sister while his dad worked unpredictable hours. Rick just hoped that one day he’d look back and see that he had been doing it for the family.

As he met his son’s glare, he empathized. For months his best friend swam at the bottom of a Jack Daniel’s bottle, much to the dismay of his real friends. He had never let it get out of hand, but his son had certainly seen him stagger home enough times for Rick to wear a scarlet letter. It was hard to leave the house when the whole town bathed you in pitiful stares. People he had once protected now wanted to hold his hand. It was enough to make a man want to crawl into a hole and keel over.

Rick dragged a hand down his face. Maybe this once he did owe him an explanation. “I know it’s late, but I had work and that doesn’t give you the excuse to stay up. You know how bad the weekends are.”

“Yeah, ‘cause arresting drunk people is so hard.” Carl flipped a mop of silky bangs out of his eyes. “You just haven’t wanted to be home alone with us since mom died.” He scooped a spoonful of Captain Crunch into his mouth.

Carl’s words were like a kick to the chest and for a moment, Rick couldn’t breathe. “Is that what you think?” He took a hesitant step forward as if afraid the scrawny kid was going to bite him. Of course, he knew that his son had been grieving, but the bitterness in his voice cut Rick to his core. How long had he felt this way?

The only solace Carl offered was a humorless smile. “Dude, I’ve tucked Judith in the past six nights and I’ve had enough Pop Tarts for dinner to puke blue.”

_And the Cat’s in the Cradle in the Silver Spoon_

_Little boy blue and the man in the moon_

The folksy twang of Harry Chapin seeped into Rick’s mind and he touched his fingers to his temple. It would have almost been amusing if his son wasn’t accusing him of child neglect.

“Carl, I’ve only taken the extra hours because we need them. You _know_ you and your sister come first.” Rick needed him to understand. He couldn’t stand the way Carl was looking at him, but he only turned back to his bowl with a scoff.

“Whatever.”

_Whatever._

_Whatever._

_Whatever._

Rick held up a hand as if he were a child making a case to his parents. “I would have been home earlier but Shane and I had this call today. It was a bar fight with some guy named Negan, and it set us back nearly two hours-”  

Milk and cereal went flying as Carl dropped his spoon to the counter. “You arrested _Negan?_ Like, _Coach_ Negan?”

Rick’s blue eyes narrowed. “You know him?” He remembered Negan, drunk and talking about pussy in the back of his police cruiser. The idea of him being around his son made his stomach roll.

“Total douche, coaches the school baseball team, teaches gym, looks like he walked out of _Grease_?”

Rick dragged a hand through his hair. “Yeah, that about sums him up.”

Carl’s mouth set into a firm line. “Yeah, you need to apologize to him.”

The complete 360 in his son’s attitude nearly threw Rick from his feet. He slowly took his hat off, plopping it on the kitchen counter with a thunk. “I thought you said he was a -?”

Carl gathered his bowl and headed towards the sink. “Oh, yeah, he’s an asshole. He calls us little shits if we get hit in dodgeball, but you still need to apologize to him.”

“He broke the law, Carl.”

The fight left Carl with a sag of his shoulders. The teenager wordlessly turned on the sink and began to scrub.

The disappointed sigh made Rick deflate. He hadn’t seen Carl so passionate about anything since his mother passed and if making amends for...doing his job would make his son happy, Rick was willing to bite the bullet.

“I’ll stop by the school after work on Monday.” Rick pointed towards the stairs. “Now go to bed.” Before Carl could make his escape, Rick plopped his hat on Carl’s head. His chest swelled as a ghost of a smile appeared on the boy’s face before he retreated up the stairs.

As he watched his son trod off to his room, Rick wondered what the hell he had gotten himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell, this took me a month to write. There is blood on my keyboard.


	2. Cat's in the Cradle

The only thing that hadn’t changed since Lori’s passing was the King County Sheriff’s Department. As Rick stepped through the front door with a thermos of lukewarm coffee in hand, the tension in his shoulders disappeared. He loved everything about the station, from its harsh fluorescent lighting to the bleachy smell that never really did go away from the drunk tank. It wasn’t perfect, but it was his home away from home.

It was Monday morning and phones were ringing off the hook; Atlanta was currently playing catch up with the weekend’s antics. Keggars and clubs had prompted the city’s finest to wander off into the dark, leaving their families in panic and disarray. Today would be filled with filing missing persons’ reports and false alarms.

Rick _hated_ Saturday nights.

“Bad night?”

Rick turned, thermos poised against his lips. At the desk to his left sat Tara Chamber, bright eyed and bushy tailed.

“I could punch that smile off your face.” He set the thermos down, eyeing the new recruit.

She slid a stack of paper across the desk. “You’re free to do these if you want to trade places.”

Tara was fresh out of the police academy and chomping at the bit to get on patrol, as every new officer was — but there was a professional hierarchy that she would have to navigate through. Someone had to do all the paperwork, and it fell on the greenhorns.

Rick tapped the stack with his finger. “We all gotta start somewhere. Pay your dues and you’ll be out front before you know it.”

Tara began to rifle through one of the drawers. Fishing out a half-empty bag of Twizzlers, she tossed it onto the desk with reckless abandon. “Dude,” — she popped one of the red strings into the corner of her mouth — “that guy you brought in last night was _disgusting_.”

Rick declined the candy she offered with a shake of his head. “Leather jacket?”

She leaned forward, brown eyes sliding off to the side before her voice lowered. “He asked every woman that walked by if she wanted to _sit on his face_. I was going to punch him in the dick, but when he started asking all the dudes to suck him off, I realized I couldn’t harm one of my own.” She banged a fist twice against her chest. “Solidarity, you know?”

Rather than say something stupid, Rick threw back an awkward gulp of coffee. Negan had seemed like the achingly typical straight guy. Shame on him for judging a book by its obnoxious cover. “What was he like when you discharged him?”

Tara ripped a hunk of Twizzler off with her teeth. “Why?”

“I have to speak with him about something.”

The candy had stained Tara’s lips a cherry red. “Good luck with that. He was pissed.”

Rick was taking another sip of his now stone cold coffee when a pair of hands drummed on his back. Rick lurched forward, spilling the black contents of his thermos down the front of his uniform.

“Shit!”

Shane hopped next to him. “You look tired. Get laid last night?”

Tara turned away, her nose wrinkling in disgust as she played with her ponytail, muttering something that sounded like, _“I hate straight men.”_

“No, I didn’t get laid last night.” Rick mopped at his sopping shirt with the handful of napkins Tara had shoved into his hand. 

Teeth tugging his bottom lip, Shane leaned an elbow on Tara’s desk. “What you got to do is look into her eyes and then ease into her real nice.” He slithered a hand through the air and gave her a wink. 

“I’m a lesbian.”  

“I’m leaving.” Rick needed to clean himself up or he was going to look like a jerk on patrol. As Rick siddled into the bathroom, he made sure to turn the lock behind him. Shane was his best friend, but he didn’t have it in him this morning, _especially_ about sex.

Rick snatched a few paper towels and held them under the faucet before he began dabbing them against his chest. It wasn’t that he couldn’t find someone; he just didn’t want to. He had been with Lori since high school and with her death came a sort of finality to his love life that Rick couldn’t shake. He had never been with another woman and the idea of “moving on” made his stomach churn.

Just more fuel for everyone’s pity fire.

Balling up the sopping paper towels, Rick looked at his shirt. It was still a disaster, but certainly better than before. It would have to do.

He tossed the slopping mess into the trash and gripped the sink. Had he always looked this old? There was definitely more grey in his hair and stubble then he remembered and the lines around his mouth and eyes were more pronounced. It was funny, they called them laughter lines, but he sure as hell didn’t remember laughing the last few years.

 ~*~

Carl’s chest was on fire and he swore to God he could feel his heartbeat in his ears. This was total bullshit. Forrest Gump ran across the country for years and he was in _way_ better shape than that guy.

“That Farrah Fawcett haircut impending your ability to run? Let’s go, Grimes!”

Carl’s face twisted into a scowl as he pushed harder. He was in the front, what was this guy’s deal? It was gym class, not the Olympics.

“You all need to start running like I lit a fire directly under your assholes! God _damn_!”

As Carl rounded the corner of the track, he looked back. Lagging behind were his classmates in various states of collapse, sweat soaked through their cheap gym uniforms. He was clearly the fastest kid on the field, so why Negan had to be such a dick all the time was beyond him.

His thoughts were cut short by a sharp pain in his leg. Whipping his head around, he watched in slow motion as his ankle rolled. He was quick enough to get his arms underneath him, but he fell onto the polyurethane hard enough to make his teeth click. As Carl lay on his side, cheek pressed against the track, he stared at the blades of grass shivering in the Georgia wind. With the sun beating down on him, Carl Grimes decided that he was going to die then and there.

A sharp whistle made the stampede of footsteps come to a stop. He looked up when a shadow loomed over him.

Negan scrutinized his crumpled form, utterly untouched. “You know, Usain Bolt fell during his last race and went from world’s fastest fuck to your average cheesedick.”

“Do I look like Usain Bolt?” Carl bit back, waving his lanky limbs before the pain forced him to stop.

“You look like a pussy.”

Carl accepted Negan’s hand with a wince and was soon pulled to his feet. His ankle smarted something fierce, but he was able to put weight on it. As he gently rolled it in a circle, angry tears pooled in his eyes. It wasn’t long before the snickering began.

“Hey!” Negan’s shout was loud enough to make the entire class take a step back. “I’d wipe that smile off your face Anderson before I tell the rest of these fine people how many times I’ve walked in on you cranking the love pump in the locker room, ‘cause I guara-fucking-tee you can put Mr. Kleenex’s kid through college by now!”

Ron’s cheeks reddened as the giggles turned towards him. He could only stand and stare, mouth hanging open like a trout’s.

Carl wiped at his eyes, letting Negan lead him over to the bleachers without a fight. He was embarrassed and tired, although he was still reveling in the total annihilation of Ronald Anderson. Public masturbation trumped crying any day.

“If I knew slandering Jamaica's national treasure would make you cry, I would have come up with something else.” Negan leaned on the hand railing as Carl settled on the bench.

The metal was hot against Carl’s skin and he had to scoot to the very edge to sit. His shoulders drooped as he blew a few lanky strands of hair out of his face. “That’s not why…” he shook his head and looked away.

“Is it your dad?” At Carl’s nod, Negan sighed. “Look, kid, I don’t know what your dad does, but it really sounds like he’s trying. If he didn’t give a shit, you wouldn’t be fed or at a good school.” He ran a hand over his hair, clearly struggling. “Just try not to twist his balls so much. You still have my number?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, as long as it’s not 2 AM, you can call me. I’m an old bitch.” Negan glanced over his shoulder, watching as the class ambled across the field.

Carl nudged at a rock with his sneaker, unable to meet the adult’s eye. “It’s different. All of it.”

“Death changes people. I went through my own shit.” Negan snatched the rock, turning it between his fingers. “Let your dad sort it out and try not to be such an asshole about it. Are you still thinking about trying out for baseball? You’re fast as fuck. We could really use you.” 

For the first time that day, Carl smiled. “Yeah, I’ll think about it.” The men parted with a fist bump.

Carl went to his next class with dry eyes and Ron with a bump to the head from a mysterious rock.

~*~

Now that he thought about it, Rick wished he had changed before he had gone gallivanting over to Carl’s high school. There was nothing wrong with his work uniform, but as he navigated his way down the checkered linoleum hallway, he had a feeling that Negan would make him eat shit for it. He had an uncanny ability to get under his skin.

Rick massaged the bridge of his nose. If Saturday night was anything to go by, Negan was going to _lick-it-up_. Were he and Carl even talking about the same man?

His inner turmoil came to a grinding halt when something clipped him on the chin. If he hadn’t been paid to have fast reflexes, Rick would have been on his back.

“Carl?”

“ _Dad?_ ” The teenager sat flat on his butt, glaring up at his father with enough contempt to burn a hole through Rick’s soul. “What are you doing here?”

It took all Rick had not to do a cartoonish double take. He could see his mouth unfurling like a scroll and his eyes bulge like Wile Coyote’s when he realized that the Road Runner had bested him yet again. “You wanted me to talk to your teacher?”

Carl Got to his feet. “Yeah, not while I was still here!” He flung an arm out.

Rick watched as Carl shouldered his backpack, a corner of fabric poking out of the top. “What’s that?”

“What? Nothing!” Carl bristled, throwing his dad’s hand away with a jab of his shoulder.

It was the end of the school day and the halls were fairly empty, but when a few students turned to watch their small family drama, Carl immediately averted his eyes. With a sinking feeling, Rick realized that he was embarrassing him.

“I’ll see you at home.”

“Yeah, fine.” Carl pushed by him without another glance.

Rick’s eyes lingered on Carl’s backpack a moment longer before he continued down the hallway, wondering what his son was so hellbent on hiding from him. Carl had played the part of the brooding, reclusive teenager after Lori’s death like a fiddle, but he had never purposely _kept_ anything from him. Was his boy pulling away from him?

_When you comin’ home?_

_Son, I don’t know when_

_We’ll get together then_

_You know we’ll have a good time then_

God _damn it._

The door was already slightly ajar and in theory, should have been welcoming. Yet as Rick stared at the little strip of light, he wanted nothing more than to turn on his heel and march out of the school. He was a sheriff’s deputy. He had been shot in the line of duty and he wanted to turn tail at some teacher?

He still had his gun.

Rick rapped his knuckles against the cheap wood three times — strong and authoritative, something he did not feel. Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long for an answer.

“Come on in, the water’s fine.”

Rick nudged the door open with his boot, letting it swing open on its hinges. He did a quick sweep and was relieved to see that he hadn’t stepped into a lair, but a typical office of a baseball coach. To the right, a rack of bats sat against the wall, left behind by the careless hands of kids. Stacks of worn cleats, gloves, and other paraphernalia littered the other four corners of the room.

“Ho- _ly_ shit, it’s Officer Prick!” Negan was reclined at his desk like a lazy cat, his ankles crossed and boots on the table. In his hand was a clipboard, but he quickly tossed it aside at the new development. “I couldn’t see for shit because I was so pissed out of my face the other night, but you are a goddamn _snack!_ ” His nose crinkled.

Rick’s cheeks dusted pink as Negan’s eyes traveled up and down his body. He remembered what Tara had said Sunday morning and he couldn’t tell if he was being mocked or hit on. “It’s just my uniform,” he told the ground.

“And God fucking bless it. Man, _why_ are all the good ones righteous pieces of shit?”

This was already getting out of hand. “Look, I didn’t come here to fight -”

“First we have police brutality, now a couple of guys can’t even compare the sizes of their dicks?” Negan narrowed his eyes. “What kind of country do we live in, prick? How far are you people going to take this?”  

It wasn’t often that Rick lost his temper. Lori had often got so frustrated by Rick’s diplomacy during arguments that she would storm off, calling him every name in the book. But all of the right buttons had been pushed and he slammed his hands down on the desk, making a cup of pencils jump.

Rick leaned forward. “I spend every weekend cleaning up people like you, thinkin’ you’re hot shit when you’re really a dime a dozen. I came here for my son, but even he can’t make me debase myself for a wannabe greaser spending his days teaching a class that doesn’t need teaching.”

He leaned forward, breath fanning across Negan’s lips. “By the way, mine’s bigger.”

A smile cut across Negan’s face as he stretched back in his chair. “Get _the fuck_ out of my office!” He hurled his pen across the room, which Rick narrowly avoided with a slam of the door.

~*~

The force of Rick’s man-tantrum had sent several bats clattering to the floor. Negan watched as they rolled across his office, a part of him nonplussed by the day’s recent events. If his job was anything, it was criminally boring and wildly frustrating at best. Chasing after little pissants all day was grating and only sometimes did he find a kid with actual talent. If anything, this had been a bonus.

Negan slipped his phone out of his pocket. Carl had a habit of blowing up his phone after school and the least he could do was reply. He was shit in every other aspect of his life, so he tried to play the role of a decent surrogate parent. As he swiped in his passcode, he noticed something nudged against the leg of his desk. Like a magpie to a coin, he stretched out a long leg, hooking his foot around the mysterious object before dragging it across the floor.

Negan turned it in his hands. It looked like a regular wallet, its black leather worn with use. It was a little bigger than most and had Negan hum as he flipped it open and _Christ on a Triscuit._

_Officer R. Grimes._

Rick Grimes, as in Carl Grimes’ dad — the guy he had been telling the kid to go easy on the entire goddam school year. Negan put too much bullshit into this world and he knew he had to make this right, even if it meant shattering his pride. Lucky for him, he was still in pretty good shape for a man his age. So when he bolted into the parking lot like a guy chasing after his lover in the airport, he was able to catch Grimes slipping into his car.

“Hey,” he gripped the door, dashing any chance of escape. “You dropped this during your man baby meltdown.” He tossed the badge onto Rick’s lap.

“Get off my car.” Rick’s voice was soft enough to put a baby to sleep, but his stare was goddamn vicious. If his jaw was any tighter, Negan was sure his teeth would be ground into dust.

“Okay, I’m about to tie my balls up in a bow and present them to you, so I’d appreciate it if you’d cut me a little slack.” Negan shifted. Admitting he was in the wrong was not one of his strong suits -- if even in his stratosphere -- so this was going to be a pain his in his ass. “I know your son, Carl, and he’s a really good kid. I also know there’s a lot of shit going on at home right now and you’re going through it too. So I’m sorry for adding onto said shit. Twice.”

It was like he had turned on a switch. Rick straightened up and his face softened. “Carl talked to you about that?”

Negan’s smile was wry. “Doesn’t shut the fuck up. I think he just needs someone to talk to that isn’t his dad. I wouldn’t take it personally.”

Rick ran a hand through his hair. “Why you?” He stretched his fingers out on the steering wheel. “No offense, you’re not exactly --”

“The confiding type? Let me buy you a beer and I’ll tell you.” His only answer was the birds for a long ass moments until --

“Tonight’s my first day off in a week. I haven’t seen my kids in days.” He was looking at his lap.

Negan sucked at his teeth. “I’ll make you guys dinner. Carl says your food taste like ass. His words, not mine.” He threw his hands up.

“And you’ll tell me why my son’s been confiding in a stranger who gets shit faced on Saturday nights?” Rick turned to Negan and the sun caught his blue eyes.

Negan made an ‘x’ over his heart. “Cross my dick and hope to die, Grimes.” He waited, breath caught in his throat.

There was another achingly long silence before Rick stretched out his hand. “It’s Rick.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had -0 confidence in the first chapter, so all of your support has meant so much. I'll keep bullshitting my way through this.
> 
> [I'm on that dumb website too](https://dennhomchikn.tumblr.com/)


	3. I Can't Get No Satisfaction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry, fam. I got a new job (I used to work from home) and by some dramatic irony, I was given the _worst shift_. So I've been really tired and have only had the energy to write on my two days off a week. Updates will probably be slower now.

It was The Rolling Stones that eventually roused Rick from his slumber. As the English crooner belted out lyrics of tongue in cheek rebellion, Rick spit out a mouth full of pillow. He wiped his mouth and glanced at the sleeping toddler nestled into his side. Pressing a kiss to Judith’s golden head, Rick eased himself off the mattress.

The late afternoon sun barley peaked through the blinds, plunging the room into semi-darkness. On the ground was a mountain range of dirty laundry -- the Himalayas of overtime, greasy burgers with Shane, and Saturday night shifts. Most nights Rick stumbled home too tired to put his clothes away and today had been no different. He had come home from Carl’s school and nearly fell out of his boots. He had shoved a wad of bills into Beth’s hand and mumbled a thanks before completely passing out.

Rick had changed into jeans and a button up. In a perfect world he would be in his flannel pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. Of course, in a perfect world he didn’t get into fights with his son’s gym teacher.

Rick dropped to his hands and knees, sifting through the mounds of clothes with increasing fervor as the song continued. It was when he ducked underneath the bed did Mick Jagger’s wail hit him at full force. One of Carl’s last acts of human kindness was when he had made his ringtone _Satisfaction_. Every call was now a bittersweet ache in his chest. He would never tell Carl, but the ringtone meant everything to him and he would get shot again before he changed it -- not that he knew how.

A patch of blue light shined through the fabric of his pants. Rick pulled the offending garment out from under the bed and took his phone out. Double checking to make sure Judith was still asleep, Rick retreated into the bathroom.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Rick!” Glenn’s cheery voice shouted from over the speaker. “It’s Monday and you didn’t call in with your usual order. So I justed wanted to make sure you weren’t dead!”

Rick peered between the crack of the doorway. “We’re eating in tonight, thank you,” he whispered.

“Oh, really? Well, that’s cool!” There was a crash of dishes in the background. “Hey, did Carl or Judith ever poop yellow?”

Rick rubbed a hand across his mouth. “How’re you feeding him?”

“Dude’s getting more boob than me.”

“He should be fine.”

The speaker cackled. “Listen, I gotta go! We got this deal on breadsticks and --”

“I’ll talk to you later. Have a good night, Glenn.” Rick touched the phone to the bridge of his nose. It was fine. Everything was _fine_.

By the time Rick ambled down the stairs, the living room was painted in an amber glow. He was apprehensive, preparing for whatever type of attitude was waiting for him. He gave Judith a squeeze. During his days off he did his best to give his youngest everything. Carl’s moodiness was taking names and leaving bodies. He couldn’t do that to two of his kids.

“I wouldn’t eat that. We’re cooking dinner tonight.”

Carl was in the midst of dumping a Hot Pocket onto a plate. “What are you talking about?”

Rick set Judith on the couch and flicked on one of her cartoons. “Negan and I didn’t see eye to eye and he wanted to make things right. He’s coming over for dinner.”

The air grew thick as Carl set the Hot Pocket on the counter. “So what, you went and yelled at him?”

Rick took a step forward. “Carl, you either speak to me with respect or you don’t speak to me at all…”

“You don’t deserve respect.”

A ringing began in Rick’s ears, but he took a deep breath. “We can talk about this.”

“You didn’t want to talk to me when I got detention for fighting at school.” Carl’s voice got louder. “You never talk to me about how I have to stay up every night and take care of Judith!”

“Carl --” Rick tried, breathless and a little desperate, but Carl barreled ahead.

“Why do you have to ruin everything? You already ruined my life at home, now I have _one_ person who actually gives a crap about me and you have to go and ruin that too! You _suck!_ ”

“ _Enough!_ ” It was a rare thing for Rick to shout. There were days on the job when he needed to get rough and nights when he lay in bed, swallowed by grief. He had shouted when he learned that his best friend had slept with his wife, but he spoke softly and carried a big stick and _never_ shouted at his children.

For  moment, neither man spoke. Carl looked away, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Why do you even come home?” was the last thing he said before bolting out the front door.

Judith’s tiny cry had Rick by the couch in two strides. He pressed his daughter against his chest, both beings finding comfort in each other’s heartbeat. Rick wasn’t concerned about Carl getting lost. He had the misfortune of growing up in a small town and had mapped every inch of it by the time he was ten. He was terrified that Carl wouldn't want to come home and after tonight, it was a very real possibility. 

The only silver lining was sitting in Rick’s pocket. He may not be allowed to file a missing person’s report for 24 hours, but he did have an entire police station at his disposal and a text to Tara would be enough to light the entire place on fire.

 

**Monday**

_I need a favor. Carl took off and I was hoping you all could ask everyone to keep a lookout on their shifts tonight._

She got back to him in an instant.

**Monday**

_Holy shit, dude! Yeah i’ll talk to Lt. now_

 

Even when his world was unraveling Tara’s youthful turn a phrase was enough to make Rick smile. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the wall. As he ran a hand down Judith’s back, he released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

That was how Negan found him.

“What in the seven shits is going on in here?” The man stood in the doorway, one hand grasping the top of the door frame. “You’re a cop. You’re supposed to lock this shit up.”

“Carl left the door open. He ran away.” Rick felt himself grow smaller. What kind of parent would let his son take off?

_The same kind that abandons him for weeks on end._

Negan drummed his hand on the door frame. “He’ll be back. Now, are you gonna help me bring my shit inside or am I just going to stand here with my dick out?”

Years ago, in the Golden Age when his son still liked him, Carl had made him watch Shark Week. For days Rick was forced to watch every sea animal be ripped to shreds by those great white jaws. Negan’s smile was exactly the same. His teeth glinted as Rick tried to push past him, but the man wouldn’t move from the doorway.

“Appreciate it.” Their chests brushed as Rick squeezed by. He was a fool to think this had been a gesture of goodwill. Negan was going to make things as difficult as possible and without Carl as a buffer, he would be in for a night of underhanded taunting and belittlement.

As he gathered the groceries, Rick scrutinized the suburban street. Perfect houses sat on well-manicured lawns -- homes too good to be owned by an absent single father with a resentful son and a dead wife. Of course Rick was old enough to know that he was on the outside looking in, but in his current state it didn’t matter. He didn’t belong here.

By the time he straightened, arms ladened with brown paper bags, Negan had vanished. The hairs on the back of Rick’s neck stood on end as he went through the mental checklist of chaos Negan was certainly creating in the recesses of his home. He had invited a bull into a China shop and he needed to somehow grab it by the horns before his house collapsed, so he entered the threshold.

Rick slid down the foyer, back against the wall as not to risk exposure. He had done it a thousand times, albeit with a gun rather than groceries. When he got to the end of the hallway, he edged himself around the corner.

Negan had careened into the kitchen like a tornado in a trailer park. Every cabinet had been whipped wide open and various  utensils lay scattered across the countertop. Rick watched as a whisk rolled across the formica, completely abandoned as Negan tossed various odds and ends over his shoulder while Judith babbled from his hip.

“Your place is the _tits_ , Rick! I expected beer stains and pizza boxes on the floor, but nope!” Negan glanced over his shoulder, his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline. From his side Judith happily giggled and grabbed his nose.

Rick was in the Twilight Zone. The camera was going to pan to a dapper gentleman lounging on the staircase and Rod Serling was going to explain that someone (or something) had snatched Negan’s body, or Rick was still in a coma or - or _something_.

“Cat got your tongue, Rick?”

“Just wonderin’ what you’re making.” He sat down at the breakfast bar, setting his phone on the countertop and hoping that he would get word about Carl.

Negan twirled the pan in his hand. “It’s gonna make your balls dance, Rick.”

~*~

Negan was right about one thing -- Carl was fast. He didn’t know where he was going, he just needed to get _away_. If only he had a car, then he could leave this stupid town and never come back. His face twisted as he rounded the bend. That wouldn’t work. He couldn’t just leave Judith. He loved his little sister and he was nothing like his dad. He didn’t abandon people.

Morgan was out raking leaves. He raised a friendly hand which Carl returned half-heartedly as he blew past him. He could go to Sophia’s house, but her mom would definitely call his dad. Carol was cool but she always took his side in literally everything.

His feet brought him to the edge of the woods. From here it was a ten minute walk to the quarry, a popular hotspot for kids who wanted to makeout or smoke their first joint. It was a textbook cliche and his dad had warned him against the spot’s perils for years. Carl had honored his wishes but now...now…

The forest’s canopy was a swatch of fiery orange and yellow. Other than the crunch of leaves underneath Carl’s sneakers, it was completely still. Maybe it was because Halloween was only a few weeks away, but the silence had Carl on edge.

The snap of a twig made him spin around.

“Ron?”

The pale face of his school adversary appeared from behind a tree. “What’s up, Grimes? Little far from home.”

“I live here.”

Ron was an idiot and a troublemaker. The incident in gym earlier that day had not been the first between the two boys. Ron’s father was a drinker and Carl’s dad had busted him enough to give the boy a bad chip on his shoulder -- bad enough to take it out on Carl. Unfortunately for Ron, Carl was not one to be messed with.

“You always have teachers fight your battles?” Ron’s posture was casual, something so out of character from his usual haughtiness that it left a bad taste in Carl's mouth.

Carl raised an eyebrow. “There wasn’t a teacher around when I made you call for your mom.”

Ron’s face went red and his nostrils flared. “Well, at least my dad has enough money to buy us clothes!”

“ _Don’t talk about my dad!_ ” Carl lurched forward, but stopped in his tracks at the crunch of broken leaves. Like a B rated horror film, four of Ron’s most beloved cronies stepped out of the brush, all wearing the same smirk. If it were a movie, Carl would have walked out of the theater laughing.

Instead, his hands found a large stick as thick as his forearm. The boys took a step back at the sight of his new weapon and Carl felt a rush of power.

“Back off, assholes,” he grit out.

The boys shuffled as they anxiously turned their eyes to their leader, but Ron didn’t seem fazed by the sudden power shift. Instead, he snorted. “No, you and your piss poor dad need to back off.” It was clear Ron had practiced drawing the gun in front of his mirror, because he did so with a flourish.

“Dude, that’s not real. My dad’s a cop.” It took every iota of self-control Carl had not to roll his eyes.

Ron’s lips twitched. “I _know!_ ” He looked at his friends as if to reassure them. “But this will still hurt.”

The gunshot cracked through the air, sending flocks of birds away in its wake.

~*~

The symphony of vegetables that tumbled out of the paper bag was enough to make Rick’s mouth water.

Negan hummed from deep within his chest, watching as Rick’s eyes roamed over the food. “Never saw a man look ready to blow a load over some vegetables.”

“What are we making?” Negan was oddly fitting in Rick’s homey kitchen. He had long ago tossed his jacket over the back of one of the bar chairs and looked relaxed in just a white t-shirt and jeans. Just the change of clothes made him seem oddly domesticated before he noticed all of the rooster paraphernalia scattered about the room. Then Rick had to wrestle with a slew of cock jokes.

Negan began to chop a green bell pepper. “A little birdie with a girly haircut told me that his mom made a killer chicken cacciatore.”  

Rick’s fingernails scraped across the countertop. He blinked once, twice, three times, before he shook his head. “Carl told you about that?”

Negan reached for a slice of pepper. “Kid’s told me everything but his dick size.”

Rick didn’t have time to unpack _that_. Instead, he watched as Negan drizzled olive oil into a pan. “You said you’d tell me why he felt so comfortable talking to you.”

Palming a hand over his beard, Negan put the knife down. “It was a couple months ago and I was talking my usual shit. Usually, everyone just sits there and takes it. But Carl?” He sucked at his teeth and shook his head. “Oh, Carl ripped my asshole in half like tissue paper. Said something about how I should get a real job and about fifty other things that I cannot repeat in this kitchen because I don’t want to affront your delicate sensibilities.”

Rick was stunned. “He shouldn’t be talking to you like that.”

Negan rocked back on his heels. “Are you shittin’ me? Second best goddamn day of my life. No one had the guts to stand up to me before, and your kid’s got guts, sweetheart. I told him that, and I think he really appreciated it.”

Rick looked away. If there was one thing he hadn’t expected from tonight, it was to be hit on. Negan was a natural flirt. He remembered what Tara had told him, and he knew that there were some ugly people who worked at the King County Sheriff’s Department. Negan’s smooth talking and slick grin meant nothing.

“Thank you.” He still wasn’t thrilled with Carl’s behavior, although it did make his chest swell with pride to know that he stuck up for his class. “Do you mind if I ask what you talk about?”

“You, mostly.” There was a dramatic sizzle as Negan tossed the chicken breast into the saute pan. Bottom lip between his teeth, he gave a little fist pump.

That was not what Rick had been expecting. “What?”

“Oh, it’s not fucking Roses, but that dude misses you. No one can be that pissed off without some real love there. Even an asshole like me can see that.”

Negan had been a lot of things since Rick met him: violent, belligerent, vulgar, and confrontational -- but certainly not reassuring. If Rick wasn’t so embittered, he would say that Negan was kind in his own rough around the edges way. As he watched the fifty-something year old man pop tomatoes into Judith's mouth, he thought he could see the person Carl was so attached to.

“Well, I appreciate all the time you spend with him. He needs somebody and if I’m not there --”

The front door flew open, letting in a rush of evening air as Carl staggered into the foyer. Every inch of him was smeared with dirt and leaves clung to his matted hair.

“Carl!” Rick’s chair fell to the floor as he bolted out of the kitchen.

Carl looked up. His usual piercing blue stare had been deformed by a single bullet hole blooming in his right eye. Rivlets of blood ran down his cheek, looking so much like teardrops that Rick thought he was going to vomit.

“Dad?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This honestly nearly killed me because I wanted to make it good because we're apparently steering this ourselves now. Truly sorry if it's not the best.
> 
> Thank you for all of your support. I read your comments when I don't feel motivated.


	4. Rock n' Roll Suicide

Fuck. 

Jesus tap dancing Christ. _Fuck._

Negan watched as Rick knelt over his son, hands hovering over Carl’s face as if he didn’t know what to do. The scene didn’t make a giggle fuck of sense because he was _a goddamn cop._ Rick was supposed to be able to do this shit in his sleep

“We need an ambulance,” he rasped.

“An ambulance will cost you about a thousand dollars.” Negan was already getting his jacket. “And we don’t have time to sit around if that thing went into his head. The hospital’s close and I’ve watched _The Fast and the Furious_ more than enough times to get us there in a timely fucking fashion. Now choppity fucking chop!”

Setting his jaw, Rick scooped Carl into his arms. “You’ll need to get Judith and take her over to my friend Carol’s. She’s the house on the right.” The hardened look on Rick’s face was a relief.

Knockity knock. Police, open the fuck up.

Hell _yes_.

“Hey there, princess.” Negan plucked Judith up from her spot on the counter. She was a cute thing. It was like Mr. Roger’s nutted into the dirt and she popped out from a sunflower. Sweet too, a little too sweet. He just walked the fuck in and she had no problem crawling into his arms. He tucked her head underneath his chin.

“Vamanos, Grimes!” he called, but the house was empty.

In truth, Negan sounded a lot more confident than he felt. Somebody had to keep his head on his shoulders today and based on the milky white color of Rick’s skin, the responsibility would fall on him, Carl’s asshole high school gym teacher.

Sweet.

Rick’s next-door neighbour’s house was a yellow craftsman, similar to the rest on the street. Negan took the front steps two at a time and crossed the porch in three. His knuckles were about to smash against the wood for what felt like the thousandth time when an older woman answered, glaring at him with a serious case of ‘don’t fuck with me’ eyes.

“We’re taking Carl to the hospital and Rick needs you to look after Judith.” He shoved the toddler into her chest.

She took a step outside. “Is he hurt?”

“Yeah, he’s fucking peaches, Carol!” He was an asshole even in the most dire of circumstances.

Rick was already in the back of his car with Carl’s head cradled in his lap. When Negan’s eyes slipped down, time jumped. Blood spread across Carl’s face and slid down his chin. His electric blue eye — one that so mirrored his father’s — was now only a mass of clotted pulp.  

“How are we gonna get there in time?” Rick asked when Negan finally slid into the driver’s seat.

Negan slid the rearview mirror towards him and a pair of blue eyes reflected back. He remembered how Rick glared at him the night of his arrest. “A bunch of illegal shit. You okay with that?”

“Just get us there alive.” Rick tossed the keys to the front

“Hold on to your sperm count, sheriff. This may get a bit bumfuck bumpy.”

If you would have told Negan he would be driving his arresting officer and his son to the hospital, he would have told you to lick his balls.

~*~

The world was upside down.

Rick swallowed, blue eyes trained listlessly on the shiny linoleum floor. He sat hunched over in the ER’s waiting room, upper body dangling between his legs. The place was filled with nervous energy and muffled sobs. In the upper corner was a television playing CNN on mute, the subtitles typing across the bottom of the screen. Anderson Cooper could have said that a bomb had been dropped on Atlanta and he wouldn’t have given a damn.

Rubbing his hands down his thighs, he sat up. “How long’s it been?”

Negan checked his phone. “About five minutes. You need to get your shit together.”

“Hey!” a woman hissed from across the room, slapping her hands over her daughter’s ears. Her face reddened when Negan answered her with a middle finger and she scrambled to cover her daughter’s eyes.

“Your mom’s a bitch.”

“Negan!” Rick hissed.

Negan slid down in his seat as he raised his hands in surrender.

Rick’s thoughts wandered to Judith, playing with Sophia and Carol. Ricky envied how easy her smile was. Carl used to be like that — young, naïve, _happy_. Did she even understand death?

A heavy sigh pulled Rick from his musings. To his left Negan sat hunched forward, elbows perched on his knees. One leg bounced furiously as he ran his fingers through his hair, hazel eyes darting around the waiting room. Then he slid back in his seat, drumming his fingers on the armrest.

“I need a smoke.” Negan sprang out of his seat like it was searing hot. With no further explanation or guess when he’d be back, the man blew out of the room before Rick could ask him to explain himself.

The phones rang and people continued to cry. Rick looked at the empty seat next to him before glancing at the door to the emergency room. Running his tongue over his dry lips, Rick pushed himself from his chair and left.

There was a bite to the air Rick hadn’t noticed when they had carried Carl inside. Teeth slightly chattering, Rick wrapped his arms around himself and took in his surroundings. Harrison Memorial Hospital sat in the middle of a cornfield, not unordinary for a town where cows outnumbered people. The hospital’s entrance was a revolving door of people. It could easily be the busiest place in the entire town — after the police station on a Saturday night.

A waft of smoke tickled Rick’s nose and he turned. Negan stood against the side of the building with a cigarette dangling between his fingers. He painted the perfect picture of biker chic, smoke curling around his head in lazy spirals as he took a drag. Not a few steps away stood a male nurse, glaring.

“Why’s he lookin’ at you like that?” Rick flopped against the wall, sneaking a side glance at their observer.

Negan’s mouth twisted upwards. “I’m a fourth of an inch away from the ‘no smoking area.'"

“How do you know?”

“I measured.” Negan took a long inhale before he inspected the cigarette. “Wanna try?”

Pinching the cigarette between his thumb and pointer finger, Rick narrowed his eyes. “How do you know I haven’t already?”

“How do I know that the officer with the golden butt hole hasn’t smoked?” Negan snorted. “Call it a fucking hunch."

Out of spite Rick took a deep inhale because he _did not_ have a golden butt hole. He managed to hold his breath for a stuttering second before a flurry of coughs had him bent over. Rick’s lungs felt like they were filled with cinders as the smoke spread through his chest. Hands on his knees, he coughed his soul onto the pavement. A string of drool still dangled from his lower lip as he straightened and Rick had to wipe it away with his hand.

Negan’s lower lip twitched as he shook his head. “Christ on the cross,” he muttered, plucking another cigarette from his breast pocket and placing it between Rick’s teeth. “C’mon, Virgin Mary. It’ll make you feel better.” Like the days of the old black and white pictures, Negan offered Rick a light. The Zippo trembled as he tried to flick on the flame. It sputtered with every sorry snap, getting worse as the men remembered why they were out there.

“Fuck!” Negan shouted, hurling it across the street.

Rick turned his face skyward, blinking rapidly as tears threatened to spill down his cheeks. His chest rose and fell in sharp bursts. “It’s my fault.”

Negan slid down the wall until he was crouched over the pavement. “It’s not,” he said firmly into his fist.

“He doesn’t hate you.” Rick sat down. He stretched his legs into the parking lot, cowboy boots scraping grooves into the gravel. “I don’t even feel like his father anymore.”

A smile drifted across Negan’s face. “Please. I’m the goddamn fallback — second choice when the real thing isn’t available.” His chest expanded as he took a drag from his cigarette. “You ever see Mary Poppins?”

Rick squinted. “A couple times with my kids.”

“Well, Mary Poppins is all ass and tits and magic tricks. Really hot, too.” Negan looked up. “The kids love her but don’t get along with their dad because he’s a goddamn prick.”

"Is this supposed to make me feel better?"

Negan flicked the cigarette butt into the parking lot. “As soon as he gets his shit together, they drop her like a deuce because he’s their _dad_. Titties and magic umbrella or not.”

Rick watched the cornstalks as they swayed in the October breeze, leaves rattling from across the road. “I don’t think they liked Mary Poppins because of... _that_.”

“I sure fuckin’ did,” Negan answered with a shrug.

A thoughtful silence hung between them and Rick chanced a glance at his unlikely companion. Negan crouched next to him, face contorted in poignancy. Now that they weren’t clouded by a drunken haze, Rick could see the flecks of gold sprinkled around his pupils.

“I lied earlier. About me and Carl’s male bonding sesh or whatever the shit you want to call it.” Negan didn’t look at Rick, instead keeping his attention on the cornfield. “After Carl took a heaping dump on my manhood, I pulled him aside because like I said, that does not happen to me every day, and the kid just broke down. He told me about you and Lori.”

At his wife’s name, Rick looked away. It was a name he didn’t hear often, something he had tucked away in a drawer when she died. Now his friends only spoke about her in whispers and behind closed doors.

“He did?”

“Yeah.” Negan wiped his thumb across his forehead. “So I told him about how I lost my wife.”

There was an ugly cruelty that wanted to spit from Rick’s mouth — say he was surprised that a man like Negan had been married, but he swallowed it. Negan was here with him, huddled over the sidewalk and pale as a ghost. Rick didn’t remember asking him to stay, and that was something. Instead, his eyes travelled to Negan’s left hand. His ring finger was bare, much like his own.

“Took that shit off soon as she died.” Negan was peaking at Rick through the corner of his eye. “The big C. Lucille was fire, but that shit will knock anyone on their ass.”

“I’m sorry.”

Negan’s smile was rueful. “Shut up.” He clamped another cigarette between his teeth. It sat there, unlit. “I can take that shit from anyone else, but you know it’s shit.”

Rick drew his knees up and huffed in agreement. “Yeah, it is.” A pause. “What was she like?”

Negan’s laugh was low and deep. “Oh, she was nasty in all the best ways. She was the kind of woman who would rip her heart out and give it to you. Naturally, I tripped dick first into every person I saw.”

Shane’s cocky smile flashed across Rick’s mind and his fist clenched. “Did she know?”

“Oh, she fuckin’ knew, and she still stuck around. The real shot to the nuts is that I didn’t stop until she got sick. Aren’t I just a goddamn peach?” The humor didn’t reach his eyes. “And she didn’t give a shit about the whole liking cock thing. Shocking — a lot of women get a little uncomfortable when their guy likes to dapple in dong."

A wave of curls fell across Rick’s forehead as he bowed his head, rubbing at his eye. “Yeah. Sure.”

“You’re a man of few words, Rick Grimes.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like you too much.”

A crease appeared on the bridge of Negan’s nose as he laughed. It was charming and boyish — everything Negan was not and it sucked Rick right in.

“Well Rick, I grow on people. Carl couldn’t go two seconds without giving me that stink eye and now he’s in my office every lunch period scarfing down Bagel Bites."

There was a melancholic beauty to Negan’s words. Rick wasn’t thrilled that his son spent his free period isolated from his friends, but he was touched that someone cared enough to spend time with him.

Rick stretched forward, fingers wrapping around the discarded lighter before he took the cigarette from Negan’s mouth. He cupped his hand around the lighter before flicking on the flame and taking a long puff. The smoke singed the back of his throat, but it felt good.

“Holy shit, goddamn!” Negan barked. “Looks like the golden boy isn’t so golden! I’ve created a monster.”

Smoke seeping between his teeth, Rick turned his scowl towards Negan. They were wrong: Rick felt cool as he draped one wrist over his knee, the cigarette hanging from his fingers. “He asked me why I still come home. I’ve had that damn 'Cat’s in the Cradle' song stuck in my head for days.”  

"You know,” — Negan accepted the cigarette from Rick’s outstretched hand — “Harry Chapin’s wife wrote that song about her shit ex husband and their son. He was some lawyer that didn’t give a fuck about him. You squeeze into that tight uniform to put food into your kids’ mouths. Big difference.”

The cigarette nearly fell from Rick’s fingers as Negan pressed it into his grasp. He didn’t know which burned more, his lungs or his face as he breathed in the smoke. “Thanks.” He watched as a rusty truck wheezed down the road, coughing up exhaust. “I’m glad his mother isn’t here to see this. She’d kill me.”

Negan answered with a hum. “Lucille would be dancing on my grave with all of my bullshit.”

“Is that why you go around punchin’ strangers on Saturday nights?” The words tumbled out of Rick’s mouth without a thought and he was left scrambling to shove them back in.  

Negan chuckled at that. “Fifth year anniversary of her death if you want to be a dick about it. I don’t like the weekends, either. So I get thrashed and punch the first limp dick I see.”

“Does it help?”

“Nope.”

It was something that went without saying: there was nothing that could heal grief. Rick had traveled down the beaten path of self-medicating, but it had only placed a Band Aid on his gaping wound. For the first time someone wasn’t trying to shovel sugar coated nonsense into his mouth. The blow wasn’t being softened and his pain wasn’t being coddled. No empty promises were being whispered into his ear. It was just shit.

“I gotta thank you for everything -- keeping an eye on Carl and now this.” Rick gestured around them.

Negan sank to the ground, stretching out his long limbs with a groan. “It’s no skin off my ass, Rick. Carl’s a good kid. I’d blow the next guy that walks past us for a kid like that.”

“I appreciate that.”

Was Rick actually enjoying his time with Negan? Surely they couldn’t have strayed too far into a place where up was down and men woke up in human zoos.

_There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity._

Negan really wasn’t all that bad. He was loud and more vulgar than Rick would have liked, but there was a certain charm to him that was magnetic, a duality that made a person want to punch him in the face or laugh — or at least Rick did. The horns he had locked with their first meeting had been a thin layer to a swirling turmoil that Rick knew all too well. It haunted him when he got his kids ready for school and when he was dragged to Atlanta for his Saturday shifts. In a town surrounded by people and a home with a family, he still felt alone — still felt the cold spot on the right side of the bed. Carol was a widower, but her husband had been a brutal drunk and far from missed. Maggie and Glenn were in the throes of young love and only starting their family while Tara and Rosita were still exploring their budding relationship.

Rick splayed his hands out. “Just...don’t let me catch you in one of those places again. I don’t want to be the one to put you in a patrol car.”

A grin cut across Negan’s face. “Shit, Rick. Are we becoming... friends?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote we all deserved (๑•̀ㅂ•́)و 
> 
> [!!](https://redwinehousey.tumblr.com/)


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